


Of All Words of Tongue and Pen

by grumkin_snark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 04:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7670497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumkin_snark/pseuds/grumkin_snark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say Ser Arthur Dayne is the epitome of chivalry and grace. They neglect to mention his secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of All Words of Tongue and Pen

**** “You don’t like me very much,” she declares one afternoon.

She’d guessed it for some time now, the way his purple eyes never seemed to twinkle the way Rhaegar’s do. They’re striking, of course, but they’re flat and emotionless. Even Ser Oswell is more interesting. But not the Sword of the Morning, whom she’s pretty sure even _Brandon_ wouldn’t shoo from a bed, if occasion arose. This time in particular, he was outright _ignoring_ her, keeping to himself outside the tower and probably lamenting that both Oswell and Rhaegar had left for a supply run.

Consequently, she tosses aside the book she’d been reading, fed up, and steps out into the bright sunlight. His white armor is so polished it reflects the rays, forcing her to squint in order to look at him. He glances over his shoulder, minutely narrowing his eyes again yet again, and says, “I like you fine.”

“No, you don’t.” She imagines he’s rather unhappy both his companions are gone and he has no choice but to endure her. “I don’t know what I did to you, but refusing to talk to me is childish.”

Incredulity replaces the annoyance—she’d just insulted the greatest swordsman who ever lived. She doubts he gets that very often. “I meant no disrespect, my lady.”

“ _I’m not a lady_ ,” she snaps reflexively. Ser Oswell had eventually come around to calling her Lyanna, but not Arthur. “And you’re a worse liar than my brother Ned.”

“I’m not sure what you’d like me to say.”

“I just want to know what grievance you have with me. I don’t take being hated kindly, especially when I’ve not done anything.” He doesn’t respond, spurring from her a sigh. “Please?”

He stares at her, scrutinizing, and then looks away. “This venture of Prince Rhaegar’s was unexpected,” he says slowly. “I didn’t get an adequate opportunity to—”

He cuts himself off and, to her utter bafflement, a faint red tinge creeps up his neck. “To what?” She can’t think of anything that he would need to do on short notice. It isn’t as if the Kingsguard really have families to bid goodbye. But she studies him, from the stiffness of his posture to the hand that clenches to the almost weary look in his eyes, and rethinks her view of him. “You had someone,” she realizes. “Back in King’s Landing.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” says Arthur, schooling his expression to neutrality.

“Who was she?” Lyanna asks, now mightily curious. “Must be quite a woman to turn the head of the infamous Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“There’s no one,” he reiterates. “The Kingsguard take vows, my lady, and I have never forsaken them.”

Lyanna is unimpressed. “So does the Night’s Watch, but rumor has it the brothels of Mole’s Town rarely go wanting.”

“You are implying I frequent brothels?”

He’s purposefully being difficult, which only furthers her suspicion. “What, is it some secret?” she asks. “Who would I tell? Rhaegar?”

“There is nothing _to_ tell.”

“You wouldn’t even if there were something, though, would you?” Lyanna prides herself on being tirelessly tenacious, but in a battle of stubbornness between her and Arthur, he’d present a fearsome opponent. He’d beaten the Smiling Knight with casual ease—probably he’d beat her, too. Figuratively.

Arthur flashes her the first smile she’s seen from him, and it’s remarkable how much it transforms his face. “No. I wouldn’t.”

“Fine,” Lyanna huffs. “Well, if you won’t enlighten me on what you so dislike, then you must do me a favor.”

“A favor,” he repeats with a raised eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”

Lyanna smirks. “Because Rhaegar wants me to be happy, and your job is to make _him_ happy.”

“That is not my job,” he counters. “I am bound to protect him with my life, but happiness is irrelevant.”

“Would you just _listen_?” Lyanna shouts, beyond frustrated. This conversation is _not_ going how she’d planned. “I want you to teach me how to sword fight.”

Of all things, Arthur clearly hadn’t expected that to be her request. He recovers in short order. “Not a chance.”

“Why not?” she asks, well-aware that she sounds awfully petulant. “Brandon already gave me some training, but he never _really_ wanted me to learn. Not properly, anyway. Or is your refusal simply because I am a lord’s daughter and shouldn’t _strain_  myself?”

“I hail from Dorne,” he says blandly. “Many of our women hold sword or spear before they can walk. But _you_ , specifically? You’re not just any woman.” It would almost be a compliment, in the right context. Except then, he tacks on, “And besides, there is only live steel here, not the tourney swords you’re accustomed to.”

“I can use live steel,” she protests. She tries not to think of the fact that Arthur could slice her clean in half with nary an effort at all. Not that he _would_ , but the greatsword on his back gives her pause.

She tilts her chin up defiantly, and after staring at her long enough to be uncomfortable, he walks away, disappearing into the base of the tower and emerging with a real, castle-forged sword. He extends it pommel-first, and challenges, “If you can lift that and do more with it than flopping your hand around, I will teach you.”

She takes the sword from him, which, she realizes, is much heavier than the blunted ones she’d only ever used until now. It had been built for a man, that’s plain as day, too long and too awkward for her slender stature. But she sees the judging expression on Arthur’s face, and is determined to smack it off. Drawing on her years of horsemanship, climbing, and practice jousting, she lifts the sword and presses the end of it into the hollow of his throat.

He looks as if he’d very much like to laugh. Still, likely at her pure gall, he unsheathes Dawn from its scabbard and, with a lazy twitch of his wrist, sends Lyanna’s blade flying. “That’s not fair,” she grumbles, stomping over to pick up the waylaid weapon.

“Battle isn’t _fair_.”

“I’m sorry, when did I say I wanted to go into _battle_?”

“You don’t learn to sword fight if you’re not willing to actually put it to good use. And no, mêlées don’t count. No real knight has respect for a man who is too craven to do anything more.”

“I’m not a man,” Lyanna contests. “Regardless, I’m not allowed in combat. Or mêlées for that matter.”

“Just as you are not allowed in a joust?” He has a point, though she is loath to admit it. Had she not donned crude armor and defeated three squires? In theory, it wouldn’t be much more difficult to infiltrate an army, if she so chose.

“I’m bored,” she confesses. “I spend all day every day in that tower, with little of interest and I need to do _something_. I’ll be a good student. And I’m not just some fragile little flower that’ll break at a moment’s notice.”

It’s her last line that has his veneer weakening, though she can’t possibly imagine why it would. “No, I suppose you’re not,” he says, a sad smile tugging at his mouth. It takes all her willpower not to ask him what he means, not when he might acquiesce. Resembling someone who’s just been sentenced to death, he says, “Very well. I will teach you. But I am not Brandon Stark. You will be like any other novice, and I will hear not a single complaint from you.”

She goes to hug him, giddy. She completely forgets about the sword in her hand, however, and he dodges the swinging blade, exasperated. An embarrassed flush colors her cheeks. “Sorry.”

Arthur sighs.

* * *

There’s no schedule to their lessons, she finds out, and at any given moment Arthur summons her, no matter the time of day or her level of fatigue. He claims this is due to real swordsmen rarely getting to fight when it’s convenient, but she’s fairly certain he does it to annoy her. Yet, per their agreement, she always complies, uses his condescension as motivation to work even harder.

Of course, no matter how hard she tries, she never once comes close to drawing blood; he’s done so a few times, nicking her with Dawn’s inimitable edge, and she’s got the scars to prove it. It hurts, but it means he’s keeping his promise of not treating her any different than he would a squire, and for that she’s grateful. She hadn’t quite comprehended just how much Brandon had held back on her.

Despite his seemingly constant berating, she knows she’s improving. She feels stronger, faster, with every session, and now it takes her a full half-hour before her arm begins to ache from the weight of the sword. He hadn’t endeavored to acquire any tourney blades, evidently deeming them unnecessary, and continues to train her instead with the live steel. She can hardly wait until she can see her brothers and father again and impress them with her new skills. She’d always made fun of Benjen for idolizing Ser Arthur, yet after only a handful of sessions, she sees the appeal.

(Granted, it helps that he’s not unfortunate to look at, either. While no one could compare to Rhaegar, she can’t deny Arthur isn’t far behind. With that dark hair that curls just-so and contrasts sharply with his violet eyes, and the muscled physique beneath his armor, and the smug confidence with which he wields Dawn, were she any other maiden, she’d be tempted to blush at the mere sight of him. Fortunately, this is counteracted by Ser Oswell, who is an excellent swordsman in his own right and filled with gallows humor but not particularly handsome by any standards.)

After weeks of this, there comes one day where he doesn’t scold her once, Lyanna fulfilling every task he gives her without committing a single error. And when they retire for the afternoon, guzzling water from skins beneath the shade of the tower, he grins. “That wasn’t half-bad, Stark.”

The praise fills her with a warmth no other compliments ever had, similar to that which she’d had when Rhaegar had commended her actions in the woods so long ago. He doesn’t see her as an innocent girl without a backbone, and she hadn’t realized how much she craved that. She’d never particularly wished she were a man in body, but had always yearned for their privileges. This is a start.

It all makes her rather euphoric and, forgetting herself, she embraces him tightly. “Thank you,” she says, wrinkling her nose a bit at the rancid smell of sweat their exertion had produced. “For your help.”

He’s stiff in her arms, but eventually gives her an awkward pat. “That’s enough of that,” he says gruffly. “We have a business arrangement, that’s all.”

She remembers it well. The art of a sword in exchange for her not bothering him about what had initially made him dislike her. She knows he’d come around during their sessions, when he’d acknowledged her perseverance, but he also hadn’t ever confided anything in her. She’s leery of going so far as to call him a _friend_ , exactly, but she wishes he’d at least give her a  _hint_.

“I meant it the first time, you know,” she says, stepping away from him. “Whatever it is you haven’t told me, I won’t disclose it to Rhaegar.”

Arthur frowns. “You shouldn’t keep secrets from him.”

_Why not?_ Lyanna wants to say. _I know he keeps secrets from me._

“There’s nothing wrong with _some_ secrets,” she says. “Why is it a problem to tell me who she is?”

Strictly speaking, he’d never actually confirmed that it’s a woman at all—it could be a dog for all he’s said—but she knows, somehow. He leans against the tower, for once not the epitome of stalwart grace. “Because it’s not proper, Lyanna.”

“Not proper?” She knows the Kingsguard vows technically don’t stipulate that they can’t have anyone, so long as they’re discreet and have neither wife nor child. Ser Arthur Dayne is one of the most revered men in all the realm—what woman could possibly be improper? He’s not the type to associate with whores, after all. She voices this exact question.

“Her station is not…compatible with mine,” he allows, purposefully not looking at her. He stares instead out at the sandy expanse in front of them, seeing something there she can’t. “Nor has it ever been.”

She tries to consider what station a lady could have that’s above the Kingsguard, and finds it difficult. They’re unable to hold lands or titles, true, but almost every little boy aspires to become a great knight, and there’s no higher honor than being the king’s sworn sword. Undoubtedly most women would gladly entertain the idea of engaging in relations with one of the Kingsguard.

She thinks of who Ser Arthur is, where he came from, his place in the hierarchy, and suddenly all the mismatched puzzle pieces begin to form a picture. The only station she can imagine that’s much too far out of his reach would be the royal family, which leaves very few choices. He doesn’t have proclivities to men, which eliminates almost everyone.

“Princess Elia,” she gapes. The queen was her other option, but Elia makes much more sense. She’s of his homeland, his age, and wed to his closest friend. “You hold a torch for her. That’s why you didn’t want to tell me.”

Arthur’s attempt at appearing unaffected fails spectacularly. “It’s not—no, not her. I wouldn’t.”

Lyanna chuckles sympathetically. “We can’t help who we care for,” she says. Sure, she’d initially run off with Rhaegar simply to escape her betrothal, but she’d come to like him quite a bit. Then she remembers _that day_. “I’m sorry for what happened at Harrenhal. That was poorly done.”

He flits his eyes over to hers, surprised. “That wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask for the crown.”

She hadn’t, but her actions had caused it to be given nonetheless. Her actions _now_ have been even more egregious. She hadn’t really contemplated the princess at all before. Most marriages are political matches, especially Rhaegar’s, and she’d figured Elia probably wouldn’t even mind. Though Lyanna doesn’t especially like the thought that she’s essentially a paramour, she’s heard the Dornish are lax about that sort of thing, and assumed Elia would be as well. But with Arthur’s half-admission, guilt flows through her.

She didn’t remotely have anything to do with his presence here, nor did she know about _this_ until now, but the fact is that he’s here guarding her, when there’s someplace else he’d rather be. It explains in full why he’d been so resentful towards her on the outset, and why he’d proclaimed his devotion improper. But then, she has no room to judge—she’d fled with Princess Elia’s husband, which is objectively worse than a Kingsguard’s affection towards his future queen.

“Did you know her? Before?” Lyanna asks, intrigued about the woman who had stolen his heart.

“I told you, it’s not her.”

“Don’t patronize me. You’re not fooling anyone, except perhaps Rhaegar. Least of all me. If it’s him that worries you, he won’t find out. Not from me, I swear it.”

He heaves a sigh, regarding her warily. “She—yes, I knew her,” he murmurs. With his shoulders slumped and his stance utterly _tired_ , he looks astonishingly normal. “She and my sister were very dear friends.”

Her skin prickles as she interprets what he’s not saying. “You were something to each other. Before she married the prince, I mean. She wasn’t just Lady Ashara’s friend.”

“Stop,” Arthur says. He doesn’t sound anything like the knight she’d come to know. “Please don’t ask me about her.”

She wants to, desperately, to uncover more about what makes Arthur tick, about his past with the delicate Elia Martell. But where she once would have pestered him endlessly, now she merely pities him. “All right, I won’t ask you,” she agrees. Then, because she can’t help herself, “She’s very pretty.”

“ _Lyanna_.”

She nudges him with her shoulder. “You know, I think I’ve got another round in me. What do you say?”

_(Many months later, when the news arrives, she watches him shatter.)_


End file.
